At First Light
by Atwood
Summary: For the friendship of a King. And the love of a Knight. LancelotOCGuin.
1. Prologue

King Arthur does not belong to me.

**At First Light**

Chapter I

- - - - - - - - - - -

A figure made its way into the stables unnoticed, managing to blend innocuously against the noisy crowd. The darkness hid most of the stable, and the celebration outside served as a cloak against any unwanted attention. Quietly it took one of the saddles that hung nearby, and carefully slung it onto a waiting horse. The horse made a startled noise, so the figure ran a soothing hand against the horse's neck, managing to calm it.

"Where are you going?"

The figure stilled and lifted its head, letting what small light fall upon its face. Limpid eyes of a young girl looked up to look at the source of the voice. "I'm going back to the village."

"It not yet safe to go beyond the Wall. As much as we've defeated the Saxons, I cannot guarantee that there are no longer any of them around." Lancelot reached the girl, who had already mounted the brown mare.

"My brother needs me-- and I don't wish to burden you further with my presence."

"This is not a insipid band of thieves that you are used to evade." Lancelot stated flatly. "If these men find you, they will no doubt play with you first before they grant you your horrible death."

The girl's eyes wavered from his steady gaze, her hands tightening around the reins. "I have to go."

"Lancelot!" Bors called from the door. "Arthur's looking for ya, where tha hell have you been?"

"Just a moment, Bors--" Lancelot said over his shoulder. "Erin!" Her brown mare shot forward, and out into the celebrating throng.

Erin barely got a mile before Lancelot's horse came galloping after her. She was a good rider, and hers a fast steed, but Erin was no match against a determined Knight. Amidst her kicking and struggling, Lancelot hoisted her up to his horse easily, as if reminding her of her weakness.

Erin hung her head in bitter defeat. She hid beneath her hood as much as she could, thankful for the shadows that hid her tears…

- - - - - -

Erin closed her eyes for a moment, blotting out the images that came unbidden from her mind. Everything was still so clear, and time did nothing to alter her memory.

"Hey…" A gay, merry face came into focus, framed by a wild mass of sandy curls that were tied haphazardly into a bun. Sounds of merriment permeated her reverie, along with raised voices, breaking glasses of the town's famous tavern. "If you stare any longer at that man, he's gonna come over and propose to ya."

The man in question dribbled his last drink down to his chest and promptly passed out. "I was not staring at him, Aly."

"Then why don't ya drink what you' been holdin, and be that pleasant company tha you are. Tis not good to think too much."

Erin thought of this for a moment, and then grinned, raising her mug to toast her friend.

"To us Ladies." Alyssun winked, and curtsied, grabbing the edge of her skirt and raising it in a mock bow.

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**OLD A/N:**

We're going to have more character development for Lancelot, and I wanted to present him in a different light. In what way? well, you just have to read on guys, ;).

It's a short chapter, but I'll make up for it in the succeeding chaps.

Atwood


	2. Wheels of Fate

******At First Light**

Chapter II

- - - - - - - - - - -

Horses cantered to and fro. Young lads barely out of their childhood swung swords longer that they were, the youthfulness of their face contrasting with the ferocity in their eyes. Fort Hilden was bustling with activity, as recruits came far and wide, answering the call to posters that had been put up. Hadrian's Wall, the chief and main defense of Britton, was in dire need of reinforcements. Britton itself also needed to rebuild its army—having depended entirely on the Romans for order and protection in the past.

Meanwhile, five knights drove their mounts at a leisurely pace, seemingly absorbing the festive spirit around them.

Gawain looked up and around from his mount. "That's refreshing. Tis actually sunny."

"Strange that you should want for rain." Galahad chuckled.

"I don't. Pity to have this party get rained on. Blessed in the morning, then get cursed after."

"Uurgh"—Bors grunted as he flexed his hefty bottom. "Me saddle is beginning to dig through my ass. " He huffed. "Five days on horseback. Lancelot's better have a softer bed for me tonight…Hey Dagonet," Bors hollered to his back, "What can you say about our little reunion?"

"Arthur should have been with us." Galahad lamented to Gawain. "If what Tristan says is true."

"He can't leave Scotland, not when peace is so close he can taste it. And he is more than safe with his cavalcade of Woads… We all received the same report from Tristan, and Arthur felt that we had to inform our friend." Gawain turned to Tristan, who has been silent the entire time. "Looking for your hawk again?"

Tristan didn't reply to that, and only motioned his head slightly to his right. "These boys can shoot."

Rows of bodies lined the field, bending to retrieve an arrow to arm their bows. Young faces squinted, aiming their arrows center to the target. Their proud stances, and the sharp angle that their bows tilted evoked memories in the knights of their training. Each became fifteen again, seeing themselves in the young men.

- - - - - -

Lancelot parted the heavy draperies aside, letting in more light to his study. He went back to a stack of scrolls thrown carelessly at a tray on his table, poring over cases, summons, and land titles. Five years into the Reformation, he had to deal with feuding landlords, thieves and other domestic and unexciting concerns. Lancelot more than occasionally felt frustrated enough to hack a sword to pieces, but he stuck to Hadrian because Arthur was counting on him. No enemy force can get into Britton without passing through Hadrian, so he had to be constantly alert for its security. The threat of another invasion was never far off.

A young soldier garbed in light armor ran up to Lancelot's table. "Sir, Knights have arrived at the Fort. We've let them in to fireplace and await your presence."

- - - - - -

"Dandy place." Bors regarded the assortment of swords, axes, and other lethal objects that adorned the walls. "Arthur should have sent me to Hadrian, instead of Lancelot."

Tristan was busy inspecting a silver plated box.

"I'm quite happy with Cornwall." Galahad remarked, taking his seat at a pillowed chair. "Hadrian's too much trouble to enjoy."

"How about you, Dagonet. What of Devon?" Gawain asked, throwing another log into the fire.

"It's a quiet place. You should visit it sometime."

"I will." Gawain assured. "You've a big farm, I hear. Maybe you can teach me a cropping trick or two."

"What I would like to know is what happened to Bors' village." Tristan teased with his rare sense of humor. Chuckles came from the knights.

"Gettin' bigger everyday." Bors answered with a grin. "Vanora wanted a big family, so I'm givin 'er a big family."

Laughter ensued.

"I see you've made yourselves comfy." Lancelot beamed, obviously pleased to see his comrades.

"Have you had supper?" Lancelot remarked later, when the rounds of backslapping had ended.

"Nah, we wanted to eat with you laddy. What are we having?"

"Roasted everything." Gawain answered Bors. "And that would be fine, because I've been hearing my stomach grumble all they way from Tully."

- - - - - -

The Knights clustered to the nearest table and pulled up chairs. If they were not eating, they were talking, telling each other tales of their assigned territories. As the wine ran out and spirits mellowed, Lancelot then pursued the reason why his friends had to abandon their posts and came to see him—all at the same time.

"So…" Lancelot started, his dark eyes peering from the rim of his cup. "What brings you all to Hilden?"

A long silence followed after Lancelot's question. "Saxons have been seen camping in the coasts of Thule." Tristan said at last.

Lancelot took a swig from his goblet. "Shall I start sharpening my sword and assembling the men?" he asked drily.

"We don't think they are capable of a full scale war." Gawain countered, scratching his dagger crossly at the table. "Their army is not yet that strong."

"But they may have already crossed the North Sea." Tristan argued. "We have to assume that they are already here."

"If they decided to attack anyway, we may not be strong enough to repel them either. But they also know they can't risk finding out for themselves."

The six knights were quiet, contemplating of the possible ways of what a weak and small Saxon army can possibly do to Britton.

"If they are too small for an army, they will not be coming in ships to tell the world that they are." Galahad mumbled thoughtfully. "So they will come in boats—small enough to pass through the night unnoticed."

"A few boatfuls of soldiers won't do them much good. They will have to resort to smaller, more discreet ways of attack." Lancelot finally spoke. "If they want Britton to fall, they have to weaken us from the inside. Worm their way into our towns and employ some poor and willing townsmen. Then, they will move to dispose of choice commanders..." He mulled over his own words, brows knotted in thought. "Even that, they still can't make Britton fall. They can't go invading all of Britton without breaching Hadrian first."

"To invade Britton, They have to bring down Hadrian." Bors concluded. "An they don't stand a chance." Bors declared proudly, slinging an arm over Lancelot's shoulder.

A grim look settled over Gawain's face, realization dawning as to where all the possibilities pointed. "The Saxons are after Lancelot."

- - - - - -

I don't want you to go, Guinevere. The omens do not bid you well." Merlin chastened the woman who has become a daughter to him. Guinevere strode past Merlin, the train of her dress flicking proudly. She scanned the table and picked up a loaf of bread, some meat, and anything else that would sustain her in her journey. "The knights need all the help they can get."

"And they don't need a Queen to worry them more."

"I am not a burden Merlin. And a Queen needs to make sure that the King's land remain his."

"Guinevere, you are about to walk into a forked road of life. One path leads to your future, another leads to your grief. I fear for you, my child. I forbid you to go."

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**A/N: 08/03/04**

Yes, Guinevere is in the story. The plot thickens!

Missing Lancelot already? I finally got things straightened out. Links are again available—esp. that enchanting link to Lancelot. (laughs) I really love this wallpaper. Look up my fanficnet profile and enjoy!

Q:Where is Cornwall, Devon, Thule, and Fort Hilden?

Cornwall, Devon: exists in present day UK., but also in King Arthur's time. You can find a map from the links I posted in my profile.

Thule: What Norway was called. (from Prince Valiant) Has anybody here watched Prince Valiant?

North Sea: What separates Britain from Norway. (Thule)

Fort Hilden: doesn't exist.It's mine. I imagined it would lie close to Hadrian's Wall, somewhere in the middle.

I'll post another chapter sometime this week. And to those who reviewed, thanks a lot! (Blows a kiss)

Celine Bry: Can't wait for more? I can't either. Keep those reviews coming. ;D

Sweet A.K: It's that good? (feels oneself float to the clouds) yellow-faith: Thanks for reviewing! szhismine: Glad that the story is interesting! Commodores R Ppl 2: Thanks for reviewing! 


	3. Sleight of Hand

**At First Light**

Chapter III

- - - - - - - - - - -

"Helda, are you goin' to take all night with tha'beer?"

"Will you wait for just a moment! It takes awhile to fill all these tankards, ya know." A stocky flaxen-haired woman bellowed above the noise made by the beer drinkers. The "Red Stallion", as the tavern was called, was brimming with people, mostly farming folk. A chorus of impatient hands tapped their mugs against their oak tables, seeking to quench parched throats.

Erin glanced sympathetically at the hulking woman, leaning over at the bar's countertop. "We can help."

"Reilan needs you up there on the stage. Coming, coming!" Helda hustled a tray of pewter mugs to a rowdy pack of men.

A man suddenly sidled to Erin, drink in hand. "Pretty lass, I've never seen you here before. Won't you sit by me table and enjoy a friendly chat?"

"Don't bother the ladies, Elmer." Helda's warned and dragged him away.

"A merry crowd, they are. " Alyssun sipped from her own drink, seemingly unperturbed by the growing ruckus around them. Spirits were high, and beer was flowing. It wouldn't be long before things start breaking.

"Ladies." The tavern's owner made his way to Erin's table, sidestepping a fist-fighting couple. "Will you play for them now?"

- - - - - -

Lancelot sipped at his wine with proud contentment. He had been virtually been imprisoned at his own fort, but he wouldn't hear of it. At least he let them believe that he had agreed wholeheartedly to their plans—except they knew better. One peek into his empty room and his performance would be given away. The sounds of experimental strumming caught the knights' ears, and his eyes were riveted to a mini-stage far to his right. It was fairly lighted, and one could make out two figures seated together, tuning their instruments.

Lancelot left his table to refill his mug, and took a seat by the bar's countertop.

"The usual, Helda." Lancelot's eyes took a quick scan of the inn, his eyes straying back to the stage. "Who are they?" Lancelot inquired, taking the tankard from Helda's hands.

"Touring musicians from Catton. They've been to all over, they say."

The strains from the two women's instruments floated to the bar. Lancelot raised his brows. "They are good."

"Yes." Helda grinned. "Business has been, too."

The music turned to a livelier beat. More people began to take notice, tapping their feet in synch with the music. Lancelot stood, taking his cup. "Good entertainment comes rare. This I got to see."

- - - - - -

Lancelot edged into the heaving crowd, his way impeded by dancing couples. He craned his neck to look for a table nearest the stage, but it seemed Red Stallion was packed for that night.

"Fancy seeing you here, Lancelot. I've been seeing less of you these past days." Arkynn smiled, motioning for Lancelot to come to his table. Arkynn was Lancelot's right-hand, his deputy commander over Hadrian. The soldier was slightly older than Lancelot, evidenced by the grey streaks to his temples and the deep lines around his eyes and mouth. He wasn't even up to par to swordsmanship compared to the sarmatian knight, but he provided the necessary stability and wisdom to neutralize Lancelot's occasionally volatile nature.

"Nah, you know what I do..." The implication of what had just been discussed yesterday suddenly came back at Lancelot, somewhat dampening his spirits a bit. "I'll tell you about it tomorrow..."

"These women can play, can't they?" Lancelot picked at a loaf of bread, his eyes on the duo performing wholeheartedly for the cheering crowd.

"Yes... especially that one there? The one playing the flute?" Arkynn pointed a stubby finger to a brown-haired woman, chuckling throatily. "I heard she got herself 78 shillings from one of me soldiers. A mean card player, she is."

"Interesting."

- - - - - -

Twilight passed into the deepening hours of eventide without anyone noticing. Erin and Alyssun obliged the crowd, dishing out songs that their past destinations had favored. Lots of repeated encores after, the two women finally got off the stage and were greeted by highly enthusiastic patrons.

"Would the ladies care to join us for a game of cards?" A group of decent-looking men pulled up chairs for the two to sit on.

"Alright, its still early—" Alyssun agreed, automatically laying down her bets.

- - - - - -

"What have you got Calun?"

"I got nothin'. "

"Owin?" the male voice prompted again one of his co-players.

"Tanis?" the same voice asked again. A dark-haired lad raised his eyes heavenward. "I'm out."

Madin laid his cards on the table, triumphant. "Lemme have em."

"Wait!" Alyssun held off the man's hand from the pile of bets sitting in the middle of the table. The blond quirked a bushy brow. "You've got a better hand than that?"

Aly snorted. "No." she gave a look to her friend, Erin. "But she does."

- - - - - -

"There go my shillings..." Alyssun said resignedly. Last week, she had already lost 85 shillings. Tonight was even worse. The men had left earlier, their pockets as empty as they were full. Erin, meanwhile, was quietly scooping up her earnings, trying hard not to smile too much.

Alyssun lifted her coin-pouch, feeling its weight lessen. "You earn more from gambling than our music. "Why don't ya just become a card player full time?"

"I just do this to pass the time. And it happens that I am... luckier, I would guess."

"May I join this round?"

Erin's eyes went to Lancelot's neck, to the curly head of hair, then finally to the dark eyes that were regarding her intently.

"Of course."

Lancelot took the seat opposite Erin. "I am Lancelot. And you are?"

"Aine." Erin said without blinking. From the corner of her eye, she saw Alyssun's puzzled expression, which Aly quickly turned to a neutral, poker face.

"Aine." Lancelot chuckled at Erin's namesake. "Well, you certainly brought _joy_ to those poor young men from whom you hustled out from their earnings." Lancelot took the two dice pieces, and let them roll in his hand. "The trouble with these things is that you never know if they will agree with you or not."

"We take our chances. But so far—" Erin allowed for a small grin. "I haven't lost."

Lancelot's eyes glittered with the unspoken challenge. "Best of three. You get three throws with the dice. The lowest number wins, both pieces must have the same face. Are you in?"

Erin took out 2 silver pieces and laid them on the table.

"That's a lot of money to lose, don't you think?"

"And where is _your_ bet?"

Lancelot pulled out his dagger encrusted with two fairly large gems. "Are we agreed?"

With a sleight of Erin's hand, the dice pieces rolled to 5 and 6, 3 and 2, 1 and 4. Lancelot took the dice and rolled his bet into play. Unfortunately, his luck palled to 4 and 5, 3 and 6. His last toss also proved to be a disappointing miss. Lancelot was aiming for 'snake eyes', considered the trump number of the game.

"I believe snakes only have two eyes, not three." Erin quipped, her smile widening.

Neither party won—it was a draw.

Lancelot chuckled at his opponent's audacity. He reached inside his dark vest to fish out what seemed to be a printed piece of parchment, tossing it to Erin.

"What is this?" Erin held the paper up questioningly.

"An invitation to swordsmanship."

"You've begun taking women to your infantry?"

"Woads make fearsome opponents because all fight for their cause."

"How do you even know I have a sword?" Erin raised her gaze to the knight, who was already standing up.

Lancelot reached from across the table, taking one of her hands in his. Without saying, Erin knew what he'd found. "I do not think you get these calluses from your flute."

- - - - - -

Lancelot made his way out of the tavern, and was greeted by no less than Bors and Gawain.

"We knew we'd find you here." Gawain smirked, his blue eyes crinkling with amusement. "Did you really think we'd buy that shoddy piece of acting?"

"I thought I wanted to see Hilden before you chain me to my quarters."

Bors shook his head. "Yar either brave or stupid."

"I prefer brave." Lancelot slung a reassuring arm to Bor's shoulder. "I know Hilden like the back of my hand. And I know the people who live here."

* * *

Erin unfolded the parchment that Lancelot had given her, reading what she can under the faint light. Lancelot did not recognize her—and she didn't expect him to. Five years does a lot to one's appearance, and she grown up from her feeble, child-like build. She had always looked young for her age, and she hated it. Now, only her face showed some sense of youthfulness.

Erin glanced at her friend, noting that she was already asleep. Aly was quiet the entire time in their walk home, not pursuing the reason for her earlier deception. Her friend was a very talkative woman, but she knew when to leave Erin alone, letting her keep to her own thoughts.

Erin put out the candles and left a single wick burning. She shed her clothes and changed into a long-hemmed frock, then proceeded to hang her cape, her vest at the foot of her bed. She stooped down to reach under the mattress, looking for her brother's sword.

Reverently, she held it against the flickering light of the candle, admiring the way it glinted in the dark. This sword had borne her brother's honor, his valor lasting him to the very last breath that he wielded it. Lowrin has trained her as he would a knight, and she hadn't forgotten a thing that he has taught. It has been her companion, her savior and protector from bandits and thieves that she and Aly encountered in their travels. His memory will never be lost...

For a moment, she saw him amongst the dead, blue eyes staring lifelessly up to the sky. She looked down to the wavy brown hair on her shoulders, starkly remembering Lowrin's golden locks, stained dark with blood.

- -

"Erin, you _don't _look away. You _never _take your eyes off from your opponent." Lowrin tapped his wooden sword against hers. "Let's try it again."

"It's not fair," grumbled a younger Erin. "I'm only 13, and you are 10 years older than I am."

He chuckled. "Your enemies will always appear larger than they really are."

-

"Gotcha!"

"You throw like a girl!" Lowrin said disparagingly, knowing that it will miff the girl's pride.

A singular lump of mud flew to his face.

-

Erin picked at a dried stalk of hay, the clear blue sky above her. She was lying in the middle of a golden field, her body near-buried by the tall yellow-brown stalks. A golden head peered from the grass, regarding the prone figure silently.

"You are pretty, you know." Lowrin sighed exaggeratedly. "One day a man will come along and take you away from me." Erin rolled her eyes.

-

"We need you to lead them at South Shields." You have to stay at Lydden, and hold your post until daybreak."

"You can't leave!" Erin wailed, clutching at her brother's clothes. "Take me with you!"

"I'm sorry Erin. You can't go with me this time." Lowrin tugged the reins and turned to one of his companions. "Take care of her for me, brother. Don't let her get too close to a horse, lest she escapes." His horse sped away, leaving a distraught Erin behind.

"Lowrin!" Tears streamed down her cheeks. She collapsed into a broken heap, her body racking with sobs. Lowrin wasn't coming back—she just knew it. He wasn't coming back...

"Come. We have to get to the hills before they get here." The rider held out his hand, leaning from his mount.

"Leave me alone." She replied dully.

"Let your brother leave in peace."

Limply she stood up, too grieved to resist. She reached for his proffered hand, taking place behind him. The horse began to move, but she didn't know exactly when it did. People that passed them by seemed to melt into the background, until she couldn't see them anymore. All she could feel was the wind whipping at her face, its numbing cold meeting to join the icy ball of sorrow around her heart.

"What is your name, girl?" she heard him ask through the wind.

"Erin." she whispered brokenly against his shoulder.

"I am Lancelot."

- - - - - -

In the still of the night, a figure melded effortlessly with the surrounding dark. It knew the Fort well-- knew when the guards changed posts, where each sentry was stationed. It made good use of the darkened alleys and the secret passageways, darting past the rooms with skillful ease.

It glanced this way and that, as if searching for something, then backed purposely against a corner. A sentry went by, a torch in hand. Satisfied that the coast was clear, it emerged from its hiding, confident that there were less guards as she was already past the main doors. She covered the path with noiseless strides, drawing from her clan's ghostlike skill inherent in a Woad.

"Lancelot...." Guinevere whispered, knocking softly on the door. "Lancelot? It's Guinevere." She knocked some more, until the door shifted under her hand, as it was already open. Guinevere saw that the room was dark and unlit, and started backing away from the door. Suddenly, she felt someone grab her arm and drag her inside, hurling her forcefully against the door.

Guinevere felt a hand on her neck, and then to her face. A slight curse was heard. "Guinevere..." Lancelot muttered hoarsely, having wakened from sleep.

"I came as soon as I heard about the Saxons, and about you." she whispered to the dark, her eyes trying vainly to make out Lancelot's form.

"You're placing yourself in unnecessary danger."

"I know." Guinevere answered quietly. "But I had to come."

Lancelot's arms fell away from her body, and Guinevere can now see the faint outline of his face. He turned his head slightly, as if he could see her. "You shouldn't even be here."

There was a rustle of clothing. Lancelot felt a hand tentatively touch his cheek. "It has been so long since I've seen you..."

* * *

"We request that we be allowed to enter the gates. We merely bear food supplies and hail from Marnn."

Young faces came to peer at him from the lighted turrets, as the caravan below was almost invisible. It was an older soldier that spoke, eyes sharpened by experience and battle. "What brings you here, old man?" he demanded sternly. "Tis late an hour to bring goods."

"Aye, sir. And we've been a long journey. You can inspect our cargo if you wish, or sample them for your safekeeping."

"Tis not wise to offer bribes to a guard from Hadrian." The soldier chastised. He turned to his men. "Those gates will remain shut."

"Sorry, kind sirs... I am sorry... It's my boy you see. He needs medicine, and a healer... He hasn't eaten for days..."

The officer debated this for a moment, and with a nod of his head, the gates were opened. "Carry on. You will be escorted by two guards."

"Thank you sir, Thank you."

- - - - - -

A few meters from the scene, a group of men watched discreetly, hiding themselves in the solitary tree that stood nearest the wall.

"We are not going to get past those guards."

"We don't have to. I've already sent people to do our bidding." Cerulean eyes of the Germanic warrior gleamed in the dark. "They will strike when they least expect it."

* * *

**A/N:** 8/30/04 I rewrote the chapter, because I was not very happy with the first Chap 3 version. :D

Third Chapter done. This is a LancelotOC fic, but I decided to build on the premise of Lancelot and Guinevere of having had an affair. Weep not! this love triangle will resolve itself in the end. Anyway, things will pick up pace and become gritty from here, as Saxons have shown themselves. Chapter 4 will soon be posted (hopefully), as I am finally coming out of a writer's block. Read and Review!

Sweet A.K (Amanda): This is how the story goes so far. What do you think?

Whack: Here's the update! And yes, it does have a good plot. hehe.

Gethorssca: About that wallpaper/site, its due to be taken down soon. : (

Gifted Empress: You've seen Prince Valiant? It wasn't produced in a 310 million dollar way like LOTR (which I love to death), but it had some very good lines/dialogue.

ElvenStar5: Thanks for reviewing!


	4. Cloak & Dagger

**At First Light**

Chapter IV

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"Do you understand? Nobody leaves his post, unless he gets another to replace him. You don't blink, you don't twitch, you will stand there until you are relieved." Bors issued commandingly. Soldiers began to file out of the armory, leaving Bors and Gawain behind.

"These strapping young fellows can take the beatin." Bors said. "In case they have to fight."

Gawain watched the soldiers, some of which were still small for their armor. "They may be too young and even gullible to make effective guards." Gawain replied grimly.

A worried crease formed in Bors brow, but he deliberately countered it with his usual cheer.

"Don't be so glum. As long as we're here, nothin's gonna happen to Lancelot."

- - - - - -

Sentries have changed posts since early morn, and far too often for his liking. A pair of eyes watched with veiled interest, knowing with certainty that somewhere in Hilden, these soldiers were being briefed. The knights have been alerted to their presence... but he doubted that they had foreseen everything that may be done against to their comrade. If they did, he thought confidently, they wouldn't be here.

"I'd like to have that round one, right beside you."

A hunched figure reached for the bread, then extended a wrinkled hand to collect the man's payment.

"Young lad, you've been staring at those soldiers. Are you here for the trials?" A dimpled old face inquired gaily.

"Yes I am." His smile was deceptively charming. "I see that a lot of men already have."

* * *

"Fire!"

The sound of bows snapped in their release, and arrows flew. Lancelot surveyed the rows of targets that stretched across the grassland, consulting the list that he held in his hand.

Tristan stood next to the knight, choosing to observe the eliminations for the moment. He had finished his rounds, checking the length of the Wall for any breach, and for its overall security. Lancelot's personal inspections have become limited for the Knight's own safety, and to their equal bullheaded insistence that he do so. Tristan, and the rest of the knights have taken over most responsibilities that would expose him too much to people—hence to possible attack.

"They can't hit anything." Tristan observed drily, absently playing with a knife.

"All right, that will be all for now." Lancelot hollered to the men. "For those who passed, you will be informed and will be required to meet with me, or with one of the Knights." "Next!" Lancelot rolled the sheaf of paper that contained the names of applicants.

"I can stand there with an apple on me head, and they will hit you instead." Tristan continued.

"I wish I can entertain myself as easily as you do yourself." Lancelot retorted unexpectedly, his countenance dark.

Tristan only took his somewhat sharp remark in stride. "_You're_ in a foul mood." He replied 7casually.

Lancelot sighed, raising a hand to hold his friend's shoulder. "Forgive me." Lancelot said genuinely. A few seconds later, the hand was snatched back, a smirk forming on his lips. "That's the closest you'll get to my humility."

Tristan wiped his mouth with his sleeve. "I doubt you ever had it."

Lancelot shook his head with a grin.

The two drew their gazes went back to the new batch of applicants, but Tristan's mind was still on the knight.

Like his winged-companion, nothing really escaped the falconer's eyes. The tracker knew his comrades, maybe even more than they knew themselves. As for the knight, Tristan knew that Lancelot only becomes this unsettled whenever Arthur is in danger (which rarely occurred), they are about to be sent to a mission, and whenever the Queen was nearby.

"That one there." Tristan pointed his dagger to his left. "He's been hitting the bull's-eye five times."

The two knights looked at the long-haired youth, who was putting another quiver in his brow. Another shot went in.

"Looks like we've found a fledgling master archer." Lancelot scribbled once more. "Will you train him for me?"

"No, I'll take him away from you, and get him to work for me."

Lancelot shot him a grin. "But I can pay much better."

Tristan gave him a shadow of a mocking smile. "The boy is good. He will want to train with the _best_ archer."

Lancelot knotted his brows in mock consideration. "Ah..." Lancelot's eyes gleamed. "But we have better-looking _women_ than your South Shields."

Tristan didn't reply, but Lancelot only took his silence as an implied admission of his _agreement_, not defeat. Tristan would never acknowledge defeat, as long as he had a breath left.

"Give me that list and go back to your room." Tristan almost growled, snatching the papers from Lancelot's hands. "I don't want an assassin's arrow in your back." Tristan paused, then refuted his statement. "That won't be too bad, though."

Lancelot scowled. "I'm beginning to hate your presence in Hilden." Lancelot muttered, arms akimbo. "All the work has been taken and I'm left to stare at my ceiling to wait for an assassin to reveal himself."

"I can solve that problem for you." Tristan grinned darkly.

- - - - - -

"So I told her, I didn't know if I her brother would like me or not, but I was willing to find out." Galahad narrated laughingly, polishing a lance. The armory was impressive in its breadth, and could readily arm a thousand men, not mentioning the additional implements that were stashed somewhere within Hilden's spacious halls.

"And what happened next?" Dagonet followed, examining the blade he's been sharpening for nicks.

Galahad instantly sobered. "She got married the next day-- to a baker." He cast Dagonet a slightly embarrassed glance. "Don't tell Gawain about this, or he will surely..." Galahad stopped himself as a furrowed expression came over Dagonet's face. Galahad's hand instinctively reached for the sword on the table, eyes alert.

"There's someone with us..."

Both men's eyes began to dart from either door of the armory, ears trained to pick up the slightest shuffle.

"Sir Galahad, Sir Dagonet?" A golden head peered from one of the doors. The door opened wider, revealing a slightly hunched, middle-aged man beside the soldier. "This is Rendal, your new cook."

The four men exchanged their greetings, and then the soldier led Rendal to the kitchen.

"Another cook?" Galahad remarked. "Lancelot sure does feed his men."

- - - - - -

"This will be your room." The soldier cheerfully opened the door to a modestly sized room. Stonewalls extended high, as the room was directly connected to the Fort. There was a comfortable-looking bed in one corner, a heavy table at another, and a wooden chest at the end of the bed.

Rendal, the cook, paced about the room listlessly, his large bag set cumbersomely upon his shoulders.

"Let me get that for you." The young soldier dashed to the man's side.

"That's alright..." Rendal refused.

"I insist." The soldier lifted the bag, and misjudging its weight, the bag went down the floor with an audible oof.

"Erm... you do remember your way around, don't you?" the young soldier chirped. "It's a big place, and sometimes, I get even lost myself."

He heaved the bag to the table, but the bag suddenly gave at the seams and contents spilled out to a messy heap.

"I'm sorry Sir," he scrambled to pick up the mess. As he sorted through the objects, he picked a coin-pouch that was fairly heavy for its size, guessing that it was the man's life savings. There was an amusing assortment of spoons and ladles, bags of spices, until he came upon a silver medallion with gold rimming, its appearance and markings something he had never seen before.

"May I ask what this is?" he raised the necklace for the cook to see from his back. Its lettering reflected in the light, carved deep into the metal. "I've never seen anything like it..." he mumbled thoughtfully, wondering where it came from.

"It's markings are Runic, aren't they?" his face brightened up. "That's strange, because only Saxons use runes..."

Upon saying that, the warmth from the soldier's blood drained, the fingers holding the necklace stiffened in terror.

_Only Saxons use runes..._

"They can be somebody you'd never expect. Smarten up, watch yar front, _and _your back." Bors words reverberated through his head.

He heard the sound of an object being unsheathed, and the lad knew that only a few moments remained of his life.

"Sir Lancelot..." he whispered helplessly, as an unseen knife plunged through his back, and another went for his throat. Scarlet liquid ran down unseeingly into his black tunic, trickling down to his heart that was slowing down in its beats.

_I have failed you..._

__

* * *

**A/N:** Here it is, Chapter 4. I had the genre changed, because I wanted to focus more on what happens between the characters. But it doesn't mean its going to be too angsty and depressing, and the action will not disappear altogether! Read and Review!

Sunset Sparrrow, Jemiul: Thanks for reviewing!

Gifted Empress: Thanks for reviewing!

Valiant: Any rules?

Sligon: Who dies first, loses.

Valiant: Good.


	5. Crossing Swords

**At First Light**

Chapter V

- - - - - - - - - - -

Blood gurgled from a lad's throat, a scarlet trail dripping down to Rendal's massive hands. With a sickening shudder, the body slid down the table, crumbling down the floor to a lifeless heap. Rendal wiped his hands dispassionately, looking down at the body.

It was regrettable that the boy had to die, but he didn't give him a choice. Nordin already paid him a sizeable sum, and he had promised an even more generous reward when he finishes this assignment. The Saxons paid well, and he will make sure that he also does his job in the same manner.

His eyes fell upon the golden insignia on the soldier's tunic, representing Arthur's court.

He had nothing against the Knights, or of this "King Arthur"—in fact, he found it laughable that he considered himself a king. Truly, these Knights were a bunch of fools—but skilled fools nonetheless. He had heard stories about these "Sarmatian Knights", and he fully knew what he was up against. He would have to be quick to dispose of this Lancelot before he was found out.

* * *

Tristan finished the scoring, and called out to the applicants. "You've all done well. You will be told by a dispatcher if you've been accepted, and your names will be posted all around Hilden."

"Is it true that Arthur will come to visit us?" a voice asked from the crowd. Armor jingled as the men shifted excitedly, murmuring amongst themselves.

"He will. So keep working on your bows. One of these days the king himself will be watching you."

People began to disperse, and the field was left to Tristan and the archer, whom he had been observing with keen interest.

Tristan walked up to the lad, who at the time was already packing his things.

"What's your name, boy?"

Green eyes raised up to meet Tristan's gaze. Tristan narrowed his eyes when he had seen a trace of apprehension in his eyes, but it had vanished as soon as the boy spoke.

"Camlin of Derlann."

"Of the farming lands?"

"Yes." The boy bent his head away from Tristan's fixed gaze, his dark hair falling at either side of his face. The knight thought that the boy looked soft for his age, a bit too feminine. He clicked his tongue at Camlin's obvious anxiety.

"Don't be all missy to me. You'll meet far more terrible people in the battlefield. The Saxons, for one."

His head suddenly snapped up, his eyes sharp. "That's why I am here."

Tristan concealed a grin. Challenge a man's pride, and you will find out his true mettle. His eyes fell upon the bag that was slung over Camlin's shoulder, where the hilt of a sword shone distinctly.

"Do you know how to use that sword?'

- - -

"Come on, you can do better than that!"

Sounds of clanging metal filled the air. Two figures stirred up the dry earth, feet skipping back and forth in a curious dance. Even to an untrained eye, one can plainly see that the two were engaged in an even match—but the Knight's movements were more sure and calm, while the other was fueled with the unbridled fire and speed of youth.

Camlin took a wide swing with his sword to the knight's head. Tristan naturally ducked, then realized quickly that the move was only a tactic. From the corner of his eye, he saw Camlin fake a move to his right, pivoting his heel slightly to his left. With startling speed, the lad whirled around and brought the sword bearing down against Tristan's face. A split second later, Camlin's sword was grazing his neck.

"I won." The boy whispered in disbelief.

Tristan observed him from beneath his braids, a wry smile touching his lips. This young archer proved equally good with a sword. His almost female face belied inner grit, and a temper to boot. The knight replied by tapping his blade at the side of the boy's waist. If they were in a real battle, his blade would have cut right through his stomach up to his heart. Camlin's face fell.

Tristan surveyed the slightly dejected look with some amusement. "You've done very well."

"It is not enough. Out there all that matters is that you win. I lost, therefore, I am dead." He shook his head. "I do not deserve to be in the battlefield."

The unmistakable bitterness in his words took Tristan by surprise, and he can only surmise that the lad had lost someone to war.

"Have you got a brother?"

"Yes." his eyes were downcast. "He's dead now."

Tristan stared at Camlin's face, recognition dawning on him.

_Lowrin. _

"Is your brother Lowrin of Catton?"

A pregnant silence. "He is." The lad answered quietly.

"I thought Lowrin had a sister..."Tristan trailed off, looking silently at the boy before him. He sheathed his sword, replaying the moves in his mind. That's why "he" had this 'grace' in his swings, but still surprisingly sword-rattling in their force. And of course, the face.

Tristan smoothed a hand over his brow, the only sign of his aggravation. He had been fighting with a woman all along.

"I could have killed you."

"As I would you." Erin parried to Tristan's obvious reference to her gender.

"You didn't have to disguise yourself. The tournament has been opened to all." Tristan said. "Even if only a handful of women had taken us seriously, most of them got in."

A wry smile touched a corner of Erin's lips. "I didn't trust the knight that gave me the invitation, as I thought he might have had too much drink."

Tristan made almost laughed. Without her saying, he already knew what knight she was referring to. "Lancelot has a weakness for _charming_ women."

"I do not _charm_, sir." Erin quirked a brow. "And I don't intend to in the future."

"That was the charm I was talking about." Tristan pointed out drily. "You will not be a part of the regular infantry..." He took in the woman's heavy brown cape, pants, and knee-high boots scarred by time and travel.

"You will have to wear a skirt."

* * *

"Your majesty." A servant bowed humbly while Guinevere passed, her scarlet gown trailing elegantly behind. Her jaw was set in a determined angle, footsteps echoing across the halls.

Enticing smells wafted from the kitchen, but Guinevere paid them no heed, as her eyes were intent on inspecting the premises. As she passed the kitchen, servants snapped to attention, stopping whatever they were doing to pay their respects. Guinevere retraced her steps, and came to rest beside the kitchen door. A lone sentry was stationed nearby.

"There are supposed to be two guards at this door." The queen said sharply. "It's far too easy to sneak in and poison everyone."

The soldier refused to fidget under the woman's scrutiny. "Your majesty, he had left only to show our new cook around, your majesty."

"And he hasn't returned since?"

"No, your majesty."

She cast a chilling look to the bewildered soldier. "A man's life, _your _commander's life, depends on everyone doing his part. You should have informed an officer of your partner missing, and let everyone's whereabouts be accounted for. It is a dangerous time to be careless."

Guinevere spun around, still steaming from the abject carelessness of the green soldier. The present arrangements were less than satisfactory, and she was appalled about the men manning the Fort. The soldiers were miserably inexperienced—they had never really spilt blood and known a killer's mind. One could easily read their minds and traipse around them, go past their defenses and waltz in...

Chills crept down to Guinevere's spine.

_Oh no..._

- - -

A hand knocked on a door.

"Come in."

"Is there anything you need, Sir?" Rendal stood by his hand on the handle.

"No, I don't need anything, Rendal." Lancelot replied flatly, looking up from his table. "Hmm, maybe a rope to hang myself with."

The assassin had the grace to laugh. "And I was told a Knight's life was exciting."

"It is." Lancelot said dully. "But not when you are inside the four walls of a Fort."

-

Guinevere broke into a run, her heart pounding.

"Guards!" her voice rose in panic. "To Lancelot's study, NOW!"

-

"If I didn't know any better, I'd say you're an executioner and not a cook." Lancelot flashed him a grin, bending over the shelves of books.

The door closed behind Rendal, his tall, stocky frame almost reaching its height.

"Can I ask you a question, _Sir_?" Rendal straightened from his faked hunch, and edged stealthily towards the unsuspecting knight.

"Did you think that everyone in Britton agreed when you put Arthur as King?"

Lancelot thought the question strange, and promptly turned around to face the man...

...just in time to see the glint of the dagger swooping down.

Adrenaline shot to his whole body, his hands automatically moving to catch the knife with both hands. Rendal's eyes were dark, his lips curled into a sneer.

"You do not turn your back on anybody, _Sarmatian_."

"Traitor." Lancelot bit angrily, glaring at the larger man through the dagger they both held.

"To whom?" Rendal said mockingly. "To _King Arthur_ ? " his lips curled. "What do you care, you were not even born of this land, neither is your "king"."

"Don't be so righteous," Lancelot spat. "We took no bounty from a Saxon purse."

Lancelot grunted with pain as his back slammed against the bookcase.

The Knight seethed, blood pounding angrily through his veins. Despite his fury, he could not wrench the dagger away from the assassin's hands. Rendal was surprisingly strong, his built a striking resemblance to Dagonet. The two pulled at other wildly, each trying to turn the knife to the other.

With instinct taking over, Lancelot twisted his body around and hooked his leg around the assassin. The large man lost balance, sending both of them crashing to the floor.

The door burst open. Guinevere rushed in to find Lancelot sprawled on the floor, chest heaving. Rendal's body was still, his own dagger impaled on his abdomen.

Galahad and Dagonet came charging inside the room, their swords still aloft.

"Why Dagonet, ." Lancelot said between gulps of air. "You just missed the party. I think—gasp-- you would have enjoyed a tussle with Rendal."

"They got through us." Galahad breathed in disbelief, sheathing his sword.

- - -

"Ow."

Guinevere smiled, knotting the bandage with a bit more force. The knight grimaced.

"That should do it."

The woman twisted her body around from its sitting position, reaching for the wetted cloth behind her. Her dark hair moved gracefully as she turned back to face him, reaching to wipe a nasty gash at Lancelot's side. Lancelot swallowed a wince.

Guinevere gave the bandages a final inspection, tugging them to make sure they were secure. The knight sustained some serious bruises to his back, a few deep cuts to his hands and to the sides of his body, but the knight would live.

Lancelot gazed discreetly at the bent head, so close to his face. He could smell the fragrance of her hair, the scent of wild flowers and spring water. It wasn't too far from memory that he once ran his hands freely through those dark strands, her eyes gazing at him with unmasked passion. With Guinevere, it was very easy to lose himself and throw everything away... as he once had...

"Lancelot."

Tristan's form crossed Lancelot's vision.

Both figures stood up, unconsciously moving away to stand from each other. The falconer didn't miss their action, but merely stood quietly beside Galahad and Dagonet, who hadn't left the room since the incident.

"He almost died." Dagonet muttered.

"Not really. The damned assassin was too sure of himself." Lancelot answered.

Tristan nodded. "I guessed as much." "Your greatest threat would be long-range assassins with bows, but not singular men out to kill you."

"You knew this would happen?" Galahad was incredulous. "You could have said something!"

"I did not think there was any danger. Lancelot is too sharp to be killed by an assassin at so close a range." He cast a dry look to Lancelot's overly pleased face. "But you did take a beating. Slipping, aren't we?"

"Want to find out for yourself?"

"I do not take advantage of the weak and wounded."

The other two knights rolled their eyes. How they love to trade insults. If they left them alone long enough, they would be at each other's throats and happily chew each other out.

"Since you two can't take it outside, why don't we focus on the subject at hand, shall we?" Galahad said chivalrously. "Does Lancelot need a personal guard?"

Lancelot had a bored look. "No, I don't."

"You certainly do. Not because you are..." Tristan watched Lancelot's expression. _"lacking_ in your "knightly" skills. But you do need a second pair of eyes to watch out for you."

"If the guard is hopelessly uninitiated, then I suggest I just do the job." Guinevere suddenly interjected. All eyes turned to the woman, standing red and regal by the table where Lancelot sat.

"Your majesty..." Tristan answered her. "The assassins would enjoy getting the two of you dead at the same time."

Guinevere's eyes sharpened. "Do not underestimate my capabilities, Tristan. Before I donned these ghastly robes I have been treading these lands for as long as I can remember. I know this country better than any of you."

Tristan lowered his eyes in a conciliatory gesture. "I meant no offense. But we all know you are both juicy targets."

"Arthur would have our heads if we let you do this." Galahad voiced the unsaid sentiment.

Guinevere threw up her hands in the air in a resigned manner. "What do we do then?"

"I already found someone perfect for the job."

- - -

The door opened. Aly jerked up in a comical fashion from her bed when a cold draft of wind blew inside the room. She made a move to rise, until a painful throbbing ache waved through her temples.

"Ohh... me head." She flopped back to her blankets, looking blearily at her friend. "How did it go?"

"I had a sword match with a Sarmatian knight."

Aly turned her head from her pillow to get a better look at her friend. "You're still in one piece."

"Thank You." Erin smiled. She sat back at her own bed, the day's events still fresh in her mind. "They want me to report as soon as I am able."

"So that's it then." Aly sighed forlornly. "Our touring days are over."

"But you can come with me," Erin consoled. "Hilden is in need of a lot of people. You can go in as a handmaiden. After all, that's what I'll be doing."

Aly pushed herself up by her elbows to look curiously at Erin. "I thought you were to be a swordsman."

"I am. But I can't go around letting people know that I am." Erin lied down at the bed, staring contemplatatively at the ceiling. "I am to guard Lancelot, in the guise of a handmaiden."

**

* * *

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**A/N:** It's a cliffie! (Atwood dashes off to avoid being pelted by rotting vegetables) I know it's terrible, but it couldn't be helped.

Okay, a word to my readers, signed, unsigned, and to the silent readers... I am not sure when the next update will come. Next week, I'll be moving away, and will start my first day at work! Anyway, thanks to those who have reviewed, esp. to Gifted Empress, Elvenstar5, Sunset Sparrow, and Jemiul, as they were the ones who've been consistently reading and reviewing all my chapters. I'm really sorry I wouldn't be able to write at the speed that I would like, but time is already scarce as it is. To everyone who has been reading, thanks!

Atwood


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